


passing through

by Null0



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Espionage, Friendship, I Don't Even Know, I swear, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, I’ll add more tags, Orphanage, Reincarnation, Second Shinobi War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26354314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Null0/pseuds/Null0
Summary: Fukui Haruki is just a little bit more off than the rest of the people, but when you’re a shinobi, you’re allowed a bit more leeway.He can’t really tell if he’s the sanest one there, or the most insane of them all....(oc-insert)
Relationships: Namikaze Minato & Original Male Character(s), Sarutobi Biwako/Sarutobi Hiruzen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. three am panic attacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title has nothing to do with the actual story. I’m just messing around

When her beloved, precious child had opened his eyes after a few weeks after birth, she caught a flash of absolute weariness. The moonlight shone down onto his eyes — a beautiful green, inherited from his father — creating an iridescent shine. And in the next moment, blurry, innocent eyes peered back at her. Had she been in a different profession she would’ve doubted what she saw. She knew better.

She was a kunoichi and it meant death to doubt oneself. 

Her eyes swung up to look at her husband. Her other half that clenched his teeth and turned his head away to stare at the walls, rickety and old, with peeling wood and the sour scent of mold. The air hummed with dank moisture and an unfamiliar feeling that wasn’t _home._ Above them, the light flickered and he took a look at _their child_. An almost miraculous fruit of her womb, words they had whispered to each other over the light of the fire, in the private intimacy of each other.

He finally looked at her and to her relief there was a determination in his emerald depths that spoke of merciless vengeance to whoever that would try to hurt _his child._ Then he sagged down, the lowered slump of his shoulders, as he looked smaller than before, like the world had pressed down on him, demanding for more _and more and more_. He let out a tired breath, one that spoke of child soldiers with aged minds, scared and calculating in a new, foreign world and she _understood_.

Quickly, quietly, befitting of their shinobi manners, they packed up what little they had, and the new mother nimbly wrapped her child up in a threadbared, inconspicuous blanket, tucking him close to her chest. Her child blinked at her again, and there was still the murkiness of newborns. She smiled down at him, willing him to understand — to believe — in them and what they had to do.

Holding their bags, the father scattered a few coins across his unused pillow, the metal glinting with the bright moon’s light falling on the pillow, highlighting every fold and crease. He carefully opened the window, wood rotting and splinters falling off of the frame as he leapt out the window, trusting in his wife to follow him. She did, feet soundless against the creaky roofs. They dashed along in the night, the moon shining down on them. 

That was the day Fukui Haruki’s parents were known as a deserter kunoichi of Konohagakure and a deserter shinobi of Uzushiogakure.

.

.

.

In Konoha, the sleep-deprived chunin who had looked at the case had only sighed and marked it down for desertion of _irrational_ _emotions_. Within a glance, it was already one of those cases where the kunoichi thought they would get in trouble for marrying, or falling in love, the tired desk-nin surmised. Expected. Boring.

After writing the last few notes, the shinobi stamped it and filed it away for any later use. He had better things to get to, and this was wasting his time. The administration needed the reports on the supplies they were able to get. Inside the office, with the scratch of the pen and occasional cursing about bad handwriting, the day went on and there was no second look at the desertion.

The desk chunin was mistaken in not looking at the rank and age of the shinobi. Nor who the kunoichi was. Which kunoichi would run away in this time of peace?

.

.

.

They lived day-to-day, scarves and hats pushed down over conspicuously colored hair. This is when they made jokes, about grass heads and jewels for eyes. The family of three did it quietly, talking in an odd way only they understood. To others, with the worn-out and patchy shirts and pants, large backpacks and an absolutely odd coloring, they stood out as tourists. They were shinobi, they were all about the _distraction._

In between the abrupt moves, the different places, Fukui Haruki grew. From crawling, to standing, to running, and talking. There was a little more fluidity and grace than a normal child, but it was so slight that it may have been brushed off. Not to his parents. 

The first time they talked to him like an adult, at one month old, when he was finally lucid, he laughed. His parents had such serious and knowing looks of people that were twenty and thirty-two, yet not, at the same time. They were people stranded in a different world, at a different time. And cue the cute little baby laugh, eyes crinkled with an amusement far older than any of the souls present.

His eyes changed color, a glowing orange of the autumn to a fractured yellow of tree sap drying in the heat of summer, then a light jade green of spring that he was named for. They stared and stored the questions for later. (They couldn’t _judge_ , there were stranger things that they kept, knowledge of things that they could change with an almost innocent word.)

They spoke to him, maturity and age in their explanation. So in between the moves, an effort to keep him safe, they handed him a kunai and showed him a few moves. It was the clumsiness and unfamilitary of a body with a mind too old for its only tether to the world being the body he was stuck with. 

Fukui Haruki’s father smiled bitterly as the boy got it down easily. 

“Hold it a bit firmer, Haruki. I know it’s hard with your body’s muscles, but you need to have this as muscle memory for when you grow up,” the man whispered as he adjusted his stance, shifting his leg to make it more stable. “You’ll need it. They won’t let you go and we can’t protect you forever.”

The toddler narrowed his ever-changing eyes and struck out with the kunai with a dexterity that did not match his young age. The day passed as his father watched him, striking over and over and over again. His mother was doing odd jobs, and gathering intel around the area. They were in a run-down yard, hidden within the greens of the forest. His mom had joked that the two of them could fit right in.

His father had only dramatically sniffed and did a hair-flip with his non-existent long hair. “You’re just jealous that you don’t have this hair!”

His mother covered her mouth and giggled. “Oh, my dear, you know nobody can beat your hair. How luxurious and _green_.”

His father ran his fingers through his green hair and struck a pose. “That’s right. Everyone wants my shade of green.”

The child had watched it all play out from the shade, eyes carefully blank and an emotionless face. In his hand was the kunai, in which he was easily flipping around on his fingers. There were small scratches where he had not gotten used to the large heavy blade and had over- or under- compensated in strength.

After some time, they looked over to him occasionally, a tentative curiosity now that they were alone. “So who were you before? We were ~~English from Surrey~~.”

“Too many to count. As many lives as the different colors of my eyes,” he whispered in his baby voice, a trace of bitterness that had long faded to apathy.

They smiled back at the child, an understanding borne from a war torn land in which mercy is not given and kindness is laughed at, with an indifference from where living is done from behind a layer of see-through glass.

The child mirthlessly smiled back at them, not a hint of the bitterness he felt leaking through. They thought themselves all knowing, _wise_ from living once and being able to remember, but what about those who have done more without the burden of memories? Those who have accomplished more even without an otherworldly knowing?

Arrogance was rather unbecoming.

That was something he knew rather intimately.

.

.

.

He worked meticulously. Experience of different people in different times in different styles gave his hand-to-hand a rather unorthodox style. It mostly depended on his frame, seeing as there was always a difference in the form he was awakened in. It was inherited from his mother, with his father’s coloring. Even at a young age, they could already see the slender bones that his mother sported, as opposed to his father’s bulkier build.

He worked on a quick movement with no frills, just taking advantage of any holes in an enemies defense, along with quick, flipping movements, now that he was in a world where they had other techniques then fighting on the floor. 

In a world where power is the only language they understand prodigies, child prodigies, had to be quicker, stronger, smarter. They had to be so strong that nobody would be able to even scratch them. Because nobody hesitated to cut down the people that grew too strong, too fast, a potential threat. Tall trees catch much wind.

His mother showed him a few moves where he could use anything against an opponent, no matter how lowbrow. _Survive_ , she said in her movements. _Survive,_ she showed against a wooden post. _Survive,_ she exhaled as she intercepted a nukenin in front of the boy, and demonstrated how to get rid of them.

With a war quietly brewing around them, people were more wary to accept strangers, especially with their shades and scarves. Peace was scarce, and the fact that the hidden villages thought they were being discreet was laughable. People were tense, ready for the other shoe to drop. They slept in sheds and pitched their tents in the wild when they got to places where the people were more war-scarred than most shinobi. Them being nukenin didn’t help their case, especially with their odd features and habits.

They camped in a cave in the Land of Lightning, the flickering fire creating shadows behind them. The three-year old stared into the fire and watched as the wood burned to ashes. His mother was relaxing in the cave as his green-haired father opened his bag and brought out a few of his belongings. He was humming an up-beat song as he threw his bag farther away from him. 

He took a deep breath and blew into his Japanese flute that he played, the shakuhachi, fingers dancing over the keys. A cheery melody echoed through the cave, even with Fukui Haruki still staring at the fire, still like a statue making no sign of hearing the song. As his mother relaxed and leaned back, eyes closed and easing up while listening to the song he played on, eyes narrowed as he pushed his fingers to go faster and faster as he made the notes _dance._

With the last note fading away, his father smiled joyfully and carefully cleaned his instrument. “Haruki,” he said finally. “Let me tell you about our clan.” There was a soft click as he closed his shakuhachi’s case.

“We,” he whispered, “are descended from the Fukui Clan. Every land has their assassins. We were Uzushiogakure’s. Though” — he softly chuckled — “we’ve died off by now.

The three-year old’s eyes swung up. The adult no longer flinched at the sight of the eyes quickly shifting colors. Red, blue, purple, silver, yellow, green, blue, orange, black. A thousand colors fractured and reformed inside thoughtful eyes.

He turned serious. “I will teach you. There are some things that you will need to learn to continue on the clan. I don’t care if you don’t pass it on after, but I’m at least obligated to do that much.” He chuckled again. “Ah, I guess my parents finally got me. 

“Uzushiogakure was a loud place, so in return, its assassins were quiet. We worked behind the scenes. But now that Uzushiogakure has Konohagakure, we were no longer needed. Not everyone liked the idea of assassins. And if they could get rid of their own and use another's? It was an idea that worked. But — ” With the shadows flickering, there was a sharp smirk painted on his lips as mischief danced in his emerald eyes.

“ — assassins and shinobi are very different things.” 

At the end of his speech, the man opened his instrument case and took out the shakuhachi again, and with a traditional melody, started to play. The notes ran up and down in chromatic runs, elegant dynamics and twisty transitions making his fingers play carefully.

Fukui Haruki’s mother had not opened her eyes once in this entire conversation, and there was a lethargy in them as they fluttered open.

She thought nothing of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can’t expect me to believe that there was only one clan in Uzu. No. Fight me.
> 
> So…BOOM new clan?
> 
> Also, between assassins and shinobi, I think it’s like firefighters and the police. Grouped under the same umbrella but rather different.
> 
> Also, just letting you know I’m a dumbass. Gods, I make his hair green. Green. I was going to call him Aki, aka autumn but if you can’t tell, green hair and named autumn???? No, that offended all my delicate sensibilities. I had to rename him Haruki, though I’ll probably use the name Aki at some point.


	2. if I buy a dandelion for three dollars, does that count as buying cheap weed??

The shinobi on guard duty yawned. Deep bags hung under his eyes as he nevertheless tried to stay awake for another half hour. The next person would replace him and he’d get the sweet relief of sleep. Shifting in his position, he didn’t even have to look besides him to know that the person next to him was also undergoing the same trying process as him. His eyes were on the verge of closing when the sound of something crashing through the undergrowth made its way to his ears.

His hand automatically found a kunai, body slipping into a fighting stance as he started to gather his chakra and — 

A child, sobbing thick tears, and covered in blood came stumbling out of the bushes. Seeing another person, the child started wailing. He collapsed, knees drawing into himself. “M-mama! I-I want mama!”

The two shinobi slowly approached the child, looking for any signs that an ambush was about to come out from behind the child. Their knives were held between their fingers, posed and ready to flick one out. One of the shinobi, with a rough stubble, picks the child up, uncaring about the amount of blood that he was about to get on his clothes.

As they walked back to the gate, they used hand signs to communicate, the shinobi carrying the child through the bushes. The child wailed, still in the grasps of the stubbled shinobi, but they ignored him with the ease of doing countless D-ranks. After the final twist of his fingers, ending the silent argument, the other nodded silently and disappeared in a poof of leaves. 

The shinobi refrained from sighing, now that he was left with a pile of leaves and a child that was drenched with blood. Clearing his throat, the man said, “Hey, chibi, uh, what’s your name?”

The child sniffed, a few tears trailing down his chubby cheeks. “I w-want my m-mama,” he said with a stubborn twist of his lips, looking more like a pout. 

“Mama said she’d be over here,” he recited, voice oddly flat and not stuttering as it was earlier. “Mama said she’d be safe over here. That they wouldn’t hurt her anymore. Where’s my mama?”

“Oh?” he asked. His suspicions were confirmed with the almost innocent statement. The child wasn’t likely to be more than five, with his way of talking. His mother had probably been abused or something, and tried to run away. “What’s your mama’s name? Maybe we can find her.”

Even covered in blood, children were still cute. The boy’s eyes lit up, a pale blue, almost metallic, as the light hit it just right. “Y-you can find m-my mama? I w-want my m-mama.” The shinobi noted in satisfaction that the boy wasn’t crying anymore, not even noticing the blood.

“Well, why don’t you tell us your mama’s name?” the man murmured soothingly. Slowly, he circulated a bit of chakra through the boy who was ignorant of the other influence that was forcibly calming him down.

“Mama’s n-name…” The child frowned, a bit more subdued than before. “Uh, mama’s n-name was, uh, Matsuno Sumiko. B-but now s-she’s mama.” He nodded, proud of remembering his mom’s name.

The guard silently repeated the name, lips contorting around the unfamiliar name. “...I see. So, what’s your name, chibi?”

“My name is Haruki!” the boy announced happily. Then he looked daunted. “W-what’s your name, m-mister? What a-are you doing h-here? Are you — are you  _ also _ waiting for mama?” He asked the last question hushedly. The shinobi wanted to laugh, but experience told him that laughing would just prompt a temper tantrum. Dealing with a  _ crying, screaming child _ who was covered in blood, and possibly traumatized was not his idea of fun.

The boy stared at the man, expectation clear in his eyes. Distracted from everything except the man, the two started talking. The child tentatively asked about the man while the shinobi indulged him with answers.

Interrupting the child, who was clearly working up the nerve to ask something else, now that silence had fallen after a round of questioning, the man hitched the child up higher and gently said, “Let’s clean you off now chibi-chan.”

The child stared down at his hands, blood smudged from rubbing his face. As his face was tilted down, the shinobi missed the blank expression on his face, an one-eighty from his trembling voice. “What -- what about my m-mama?”

“Well,” he coaxed, already shaping his fingers into the hand signs for a water jutsu, “you’re so dirty! Your mama might not even recognize you!”

“Oh. O-okay,” the child said obediently, nodding in compliance.

Almost immediately, water rushed down, soaking the child into a wet rag. He shivered, clutching himself. As the water dribbled down from the wet child, it turned from a rust red to clear after a few seconds. His eyes were drawn to the bright green hair of the child, something he was able to see after the blood was washed away. It was a spring green, like the new leaves of Hashirama trees that surrounded Konoha in spring. The child and his pitiful metallic blue eyes stared at the shinobi, betrayal in his eyes, as his teeth chattered together. 

Soft heartedly, the man ran through the signs again to make a wind jutsu that dried off the child. A small gale was summoned in the clearing, circling around the child. It was one most shinobi knew exactly for a purpose such as this. The child had an awed look on his face as he dried off, the wind drying his hair and making it fluff up.The child poked himself, and made an even more surprised face when he didn’t feel the stickiness of the blood or the water that had drenched him.

“Woah,” the child blurted out. He patted his shirt and smiled as he felt the dry fabric. He smiled shyly at the older man. The shinobi felt himself chuckle and patted the kid on the head. Switching the child to his other arm, the man started to quietly talk to the child. 

As the kid untensed, there was a swirl of air that signified that his partner had come back. Turning around, the stubbled shinobi saw the group of chunin that trailed behind his partner. Dipping his head in greeting, the child quieted besides him as he saw the group of people, weapons out and ready for any unwanted  _ surprises. _

The chunin immediately started out, traveling in a sweeping method, for any other people that were near their walls. Nodding at his partner, the stubbled shinobi twisted his fingers into the hand signs for the body flicker. The world seemed to vanish around the two, appearing in different places that the child couldn’t identify. The village was entwined with nature, the few places where he had jumped off of being branches and the top of the buildings. He carried the child over to the T and I departments. It was rather cruel to leave a child there, but procedures were procedures, especially in a time of war.

He arrived in the lobby, where another steeled-eyed kunoichi was already waiting to gain a hold of the child. He wordlessly handed the child over, his genial smile collapsing into a straight face as he was also escorted away to be questioned about his perspective of the events. The child whimpered and his outstretched hands dangled in the air for a moment as he tried to grab the man he came with.

Large blue eyes stared at the woman who was holding him. He shrunk down defensively as the lady navigated the grey halls efficiently. From where the child could see, there was very little lighting, only lasting till the next shadow, making the halls almost eerily lengthen. There were no windows, and oppressive steel doors lined the walls. His hands tightened on the lady’s shirt, which she gave him no more than a passing glance for.

Finally, she made it to one of the doors, after an unknown time of walking. There was an open door that she approached. With silent steps, the kunoichi made it over to the room where other people were already waiting. Dipping her head as she walked in, she placed the child down at the door. At the door frame, the child hesitated for a second before following the kunoichi’s lead.

The room was about the size of a kitchen, with a metal table gleaming in the middle of the room. With three other people already in the room, one, a blond man with a high ponytail sat at one of the two chairs. The other chair was facing him, with the table to the side of the chairs, a block between the people at the back of the room and the man sitting on the other side of the table. The child chose to sit next to the long-haired blond man.

With a friendly expression, the blond man waited till the child was also sitting on the chair that was next to him before asking, “Hello, who are you?”

Seeing the only nice person there, with the rest of the people having an intimidating expression, the child trembled in his seat as he said, “H-Haruki. My n-name is Haruki.”

As the man smiled, there were little crinkle lines on the edges of his eyes. “Oh? My name’s Yamanaka Kenji. You can call me Yamanaka-san. What’s your last name?”

“F-Fukui?” Haruki slowly inched away from the people, and sat on the edge of the chair, fidgeting with his fingers.

“Can I call you Haruki-chan?” His smile became even brighter, turning his eyes into glimmering half-moon crescents.

“Sure?” Haruki answered questioningly. In the artificial lighting, light blue eyes, almost grey, peeked up at the man. 

With the man talking pleasantly, and teasing out information like he didn’t know what he was doing to a little child, Haruki squirmed in his seat. He had just been ‘tricked’ into telling his life story up until this moment, and what led to his mother running away. It was all told in a somewhat incomprehensible childish babble that only the man was able to translate. At some point, he had whipped out a notepad and took notes, something that Haruki had only noticed when he placed the clipboard down, only for one of the people in the room to immediately grab it.

“How old are you again? You’re so cute! My, look at your little cheeks!” the man all but squeals, poking one of Haruki’s cheeks, faster than he could react. They were now just talking about general things that Haruki had seen in his story, no longer a tensed atmosphere from the subtle interrogation.

As Haruki stutteringly replied, “F-four.” One of the shinobi in the room, the same woman who brought him here, tellingly coughed into her fist. She stared at the Yamanaka with judging eyes, and coughed again. Yamanaka Kenji just beamed back at her, and she backed down.

Turning over to the child, he says, “Well, Haruki-chan, you know how your mama wanted to come here?” The man pauses, clearly waiting for confirmation.

“Yeah,” he said sullenly, staring at his swinging feet.

“Well, she wanted you to go instead, so you can have a life here,” he said patiently. “Isn’t that nice?”

“I-I guess?” Haruki’s eyes flickered up to the Yamanaka before wandering the room. Large eyes, the picture of innocence. “I d-dunno.”

The man smiled, eyes somehow becoming even more of a happy crescent. “All we have to do is just look at something, and you can join us. Your mama’s wish can come true! So will you allow us to take you for a check-up? That’s all you need to do, then we can place you in the orphanage.”

“Mama would’ve w-wanted that?” the child muttered. That seemed to have decided everything for him. “Okay.”

“Follow me then.” Yamanaka Kenji stood up, and the long blond ponytail silently swung behind him, golden strands glinting in the light. There were a few hairs that were too short for the ponytail and framed the man’s rather angular face.

Haruki also slid off of his chair, little feet plodding after the man’s steps that were significantly slowed down. 

The man leads him into a different room, taking twisty turns and going up and down stairs. Haruki had started panting half way through, little eyes staring up at the man who was still going his speed.

There’s a cautiousness in the older man’s movements, making every step loud, not noiseless as it would have normally been. Yamanaka Kenji moved fluidly, different from the bumbling steps Haruki took. As the child was counting his steps, he noticed that they arrived.

The room was more of a doctor’s practice, with a counter and cabinets lining the walls, a chart on the wall with a diagram that Haruki stared at. There’s a monitor hooked up to the wall, a keyboard that sat on a protruding shelf in front of the screen, enough space on the shelf to house a mouse that also occupied a little space on the ledge. 

He peeked around the room and startled as Yamanaka Kenji picked him up, hands under his arms and placed him on the counter. Haruki’s feet were far away from the ground, and the man dragged a plastic chair next to the counter, and plopped himself in it, asking a few questions while at it. His long hair was draped over the back of the chair, like a long cascade of liquid gold.

Haruki answered them stutteringly, with nothing more than trust in his eyes. There was something like pity in Yamanaka Kenji’s eyes before it was quickly concealed. He was behaving like a happy existence, and he watched the boy slowly come out of his shell, not stuttering as much. The man slipped as much praise for Konoha and shinobi in the conversation as he could; as it was his job, There were sharp steps as an iryō-nin walked through the halls, seeming to make as much noise to not startle any hurt, afraid shinobi. Hearing the doctor coming, the man smiled at the boy and patted him on the head, telling him that he was just going to be outside.

Yamanaka Kenji stood up, and with soundless feet this time, took a measured pace to the door. His hair swayed behind him, and he slipped out as Haruki heard his doctor pause, likely seeing the shinobi. Only being able to see the door, Haruki saw the man get out the way, a brunette lady appeared, no-nonsense and practical looking.

As the lady walked into the room, there was a flicker of surprise as she realized that she wasn’t treating one of her usual patients. Her eyes quickly looked down again at her clipboard and she scanned the paper quickly. 

Pity was the first thing that seemed to come over her, but a smile immediately stretched over her face as she crouched down. “Hello! So, we’re just doing a little check-up, okay?”

Haruki nodded jerkily. His lips started to part to say something, but he then closed it and started kicking his little feet back and forth. He examined the lady with all the scrutiny of a four-year old before looking down again. As the iryō-nin waited patiently, the child licked his lips and said, “Y-yeah.”

She patted him on the head. “Alright, Fukui-chan, let’s see. Sit up for me, will you?”

He straightened up, stiff as a board, hands on his lap as she turned around to quickly disinfect and grab her stethoscope. She knelt down, and pressed the device around his chest, and on his back.

The whole check up went something like that, but at the last moment, when she was writing things down and inputting them into the computer, she turned around. Her hands started glowing with a green lazily swirling mist, dancing around her fingers.

Haruki eyed it with an equal look of suspicion and wonder. The iryō-nin ran it down his body, stopping in some places with a look of concentration. He gasped as he felt the cuts and bruises on his legs heal with a rather warm feeling in his gut. 

She smiled at him with a look of amusement, and the green glow was extinguished. Standing up, she dusted her hands off, grabbing the clipboard to write more on the paper and typing it into the computer. “Well, there we go, you’re free to go Fukui-chan.”

He rolled his pants sleeve up and expressed a face of wonderment when he didn’t see the cuts and bruises he had last time. Finally, he hopped down and bowed to the lady. “T-thank you s-sensei.”

She laughed. “Oh, it’s alright. Now go outside, Yamanaka-san is probably waiting for you.”

He nodded rapidly, sparking another round of laughter and hurried outside on his two little stubby legs. He peeked outside and saw the blond shinobi leaning against the wall, a few doors down, eyes closed. The squeak of the hinges was too loud for him not to hear, and Haruki approached the man.

Just as the child was about to tug on Yamanaka Kenji’s pants, the man opened his eyes, the opaque grey eyes darted down to the child. He pushed himself off the wall, asking, “Did the check-up go well?”

“Yeah?” he said unsurely. The child tilted his head as he seemed to think back on the whole check-up.

“Okay,” he said, a warm smile pasted back on. “I’ll go show you the orphanage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, I’m such a mess.
> 
> No idea. No idea where I’m going with this…


	3. Chapter 3

The Sandaime Hokage stared down at the report. The council was both against and for it, split around the middle. But eventually they came to an agreement. _Children_. _Orphans._

But they were planning for the future, and that’s all that mattered. They weren’t their children so it wasn’t a problem. _Sacrificing the children of the present for children of the future. Sacrificing the children without parents for those with parents._

His fingers tightened around the pen, and the chakra that was strengthening the pen was the only thing that kept it from turning to dust. His arguments with Danzo, the dream they worked for, the smiles on his people’s faces. They all flashed by him, and he wanted to go down there and adopt them all. All of the unwanted kids. The kids who would be ruthlessly thrown to the wolves. Hiruzen’s fingers tightened again, and it seemed like his pen teleported to join the other pens lodged in the wall across from his desk.

Standing up, he pulled his white cloak over his shoulders, and placed the hat on his head, his fingers pausing on the brim of his hat in a slight flicking moment. Even without looking to the ceiling, he heard the slight whistle of air as his guards were dismissed. He got ready to leave and pushed his chair back, stepping out of the desk. He paused thoughtfully, before he put his hat down, and placed the cloak on the chair. The hand signs for a kage bunshin flashed through his fingers, and within a second, a copy of himself appeared and nodded to him.

The bunshin sat at the desk with a weary sigh but started reading over the documents, ignoring the one that sat in the middle of the desk, placing paperwork over it as if it didn’t exist. He started signing or crumpling the papers, cursing under his breath when he got to a paper in which he couldn’t read the handwriting.

Hiruzen sighed at himself but immediately started walking away from the desk. Taking a last look at the picture frame that held a picture that held a picture of Tsunade, Orochimaru and Jiraiya in a team photo. With a light genjutsu, that was tightened at the edges, enough so that nobody would entirely recognize him, he walked out of his own office.

Or, to say it better, he opened his window and hopped out. Running at a decent speed, he reached the orphanage within a few minutes. It was at the outskirts of Konoha, a well-kept building in a clearing. Trees surrounded it, creating a border of sorts and plants were raised outside.

There was a slight ruckus Hiruzen heard as he jumped into the clearing, grass tickling his feet. It was of the war-cry of children that were sheltered from the outside. A few kids ran around with sticks, likely found near the forest. An adult was outside, supervising them. Occasionally, the matron yelled at a kid not to stray so far away.

As he landed, a few kids saw him and gasped loudly. Excited calls of, “A shinobi! A shinobi!” made nearly all of them look at him. He chuckled as some of them darted up to him, the outspoken kids of the group bombarding him with questions. Excited and awed eyes sparkled at him as he patted heads and answered questions with kid-friendly answers.

No matter what Danzo says, he’s not _that_ stupid.

A few peel away from the group to go tell the rest of the kids that “A shinobi!” is here. They yanked open the doors and thundered through the house as Hiruzen tried -- in vain -- to make his way over to the orphanage. “Hey, hey,” he placated, “why don’t I first go inside?”

Although a few of them pouted at him, they eventually let go of his clothes and let him walk inside, a cloud of children around him. As he tried to waddle through the kids without trampling any of them, the matron rushed out. The others herded the straying kids inside, respectful of the lady who was rushing up to the kids.

“Hey! Hey!” she shouted, and waved a dish towel threateningly. Her stern face made him smile. The sunlight gave her brown hair a copperish tint. “Give the man some space! C’mon children!”

She was drying her hands off as the kids sulkily dispersed to go inside. The lady mockingly scowled down at the children who dared make faces at her. Suds stuck to her apron, water marks showed that she had been likely washing dishes, or laundry.

His eyes were dragged up from his examination of her when she yelled, “Oi! Takeshi! Don’t think I don’t see you making that face! Watch your language! I’ll wash your mouth out with soap!” She narrowed her eyes at the black-haired boy, who guiltily ducked his head, chastised.

“Biwako.” Hiruzen smiled. He didn’t dare mention her swollen belly, or heaven forbid, tell her to not work. _That_ would lead to nights on the floor. And _kasuzuke_ for _weeks._

“Hiruzen, what are you doing here?” She raised a thin eyebrow, in a way that she knew was rather intimidating to him. There was a beat of silence. His mouth was still closed. And _that_ was a beat of silence too long. He cursed his past self, why did he get drunk near her? 

“ _Husband,_ if you would like to answer?” Ah, that’s right, he was the lucky fool who decided to marry her. Her eyebrow was raised a tiny bit higher, the way it was when she was displeased with him.

Smiling sheepishly at her, he laughed. “Sorry, all my time was occupied with paperwork, and I haven’t visited you.”

The dish towel whipped out sharply, and he let it hit him. She growled, “Do not lie to me _husband._ What happened?”

His smile slowly disappeared. “We should talk about this later.”

His lovely, beautiful, whip-sharp Biwako eyed him but let it pass. She moved aside to let him go inside of the orphanage. He had gotten so lucky when he was able to marry her, didn’t he?

.

.

.

Minato walked quietly away from his door, the screaming and shouting making him hunch his back in the privacy of his room. He retreated back to his room after sneaking around to eat some breakfast. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, before he shook his head and tried to smile again. Smile, and everything will be alright. 

He buried himself in the blankets on his bed, a cocoon of warm blanks and grabbed a book to distract himself from the loud crash from something breaking. For a second there was an almost explosive silence that had him tensed and ready for… An even louder bout of screaming started, more crashing sounds hitting against the wall. As he opened the book from where he last left off, his eyes read the sentence, and remained scanning the words over and over, his brain not reading a letter on the page.

He was smart and the books he read were way above his level, and he was proud of himself for that. Sometimes, though, he wished that his parents would just look and see him, and stop screaming for a second, to be together for a bit. Maybe he was smart in the way that he was just a bit more mature, a bit smarter, a bit more observant, but it didn’t help when his mom was nursing a bottle, or his dad had a cut the size of a stiletto.

There was a thump on his roof, barely audible from the increasingly loud screaming from the other room. Minato scrambled up, an excitement pulsing through his veins, drowning out the angry voices that were screaming at each other.

His friend.

Though shinobi also ran on the roofs, he was the only person who came on these roofs, as it was the part that held housing. He climbed up, blue eyes peeking up to see a child. Who was not a shinobi, incidentally. Still, any child who was on the roof was guaranteed to not just be a regular kid. Scrambling up to make his way across the roof, he slightly winced at the aching pain around his stomach.

“Hey!” he called, waving at the child who was sitting on the edge of his roof.

Minato cocked his head, blond hair swaying with his motion. “What are you doing now?”

The green-haired child, maybe around four, stared at his feet, where he had been kicking them from the little ledge where he was sitting. “...nothing,” he whispered timidly, hunching his shoulders. Ah, he was still testing him with his timid manner. Minato had seen through it a long time ago, the timidity, a mask that would probably be used as long as Fukui didn’t get tired of it. Though, he held no delusions that he would’ve been able to see through it without Fukui dropping it around him. It was _that_ convincing.

“C’mon, Fukui, are you going anywhere?” Still, Minato forged ahead. His big blue eyes sparkled in curiosity. 

He had met the boy in the library, and thought the child was lost, which to the embarrassment of Minato, the boy was not. Through a few months, he was able to get past the facade of timidity that Fukui showed, and actually preferred his normal cold demeanor. The other was rather sharp tongued and showed up randomly, and made even more random comments when his mask was cracked. 

He always disappeared as quickly as he appeared, though.

Minato liked his company, though, it was simple enough to be who you were with him. And Fukui was an oddity, he thought, likely a prodigy as well, with his fluency and manner. Minato had a hard time getting along with others of his age, and his books took up his time in the meanwhile. 

The boy looked away. “ _Namikaze,_ ” he threateningly said, “stop nagging.”

Minato repeated his question. “What were you doing?” He finally got an answer.

“Going outside.”

“Why?”

Fukui shrugged. 

Minato hid his wince when he heard a loud crash from up on the roof. His smile weakened for a second, and angry voices could be faintly heard. Minato had always been outside when Fukui had found him, somehow able to locate him. The blond had a few suspicions but would never outright ask the boy. He didn’t know him well enough, not with only a few months of companionship under his belt. So with the loud crashing, it would be rather easy for the other to guess what’s happening inside his house.

He looked at the other homes along the twisted road. They were shaped along the trees that had been there first, walls curving along the old tree trunk. With a mild smile on his face, he studied the homes with a focus that made him miss the considering look on the other’s face.

Fukui quietly said, “You want to go somewhere?” He still stared at the ground from their height with both of his eyes looking at a certain point.

Minato’s eyes lit up. This is what he was waiting for. Still, he asked, “I can?”

The child sent a calculating look at the other, at odds with his previous timid manner. A crack in the facade. “I don’t know, can you? Are you going to ask permission?”

As if punctuating with his statement, there was an even louder crash, with more shouting in the silence that followed. Minato took a breath of the air, the summer leaves of the tree a bright green in his eyes, with the low murmur of people buzzing in the air. There was the crash of his parents, another argument, another broken plate, another bruise, anther sharp word _— anotheranotheranotheranother —_

He slowly breathed out. “Can we go now?”

Fukui ducked his head, standing up. “...Follow me,” he softly said. 

Fukui started walking, and then jogging, then running and _sprinting_. Minato followed, finding the pace a bit fast. Still, with the wind blowing through his hair, whistling in his ears, the burn of his legs and the soft thump as he hit the ground… He pushed himself to keep up with the other. The younger child was clearly slowing down for him, and it did make him feel slightly embarrassed, but the blood rushing through his ears and the ache from being out of breath is so pleasant that he just wanted to continue and mindlessly follow Fukui in a trance. 

They had played like this, a few times, in the afternoons when Fukui had appeared. There had been a warm feeling in his chest as well, and it always happily bubbled as he ran. It was easier to distract himself with, rather than the piercing shrieks that filled his home.

He wasn’t able to make his moves as practiced, or as elegant as the child, but he substituted it for keeping up with the other. There was a vague disappointment when he started slowing down, his feet hitting the soft grass of the field, and when he finally looked up, he was in a field. The grass was overgrown, about waist high for him, and up to Fukui’s chest. It was slightly damp from the morning dew, and stood proudly in the wild. Small flowers sprang out of the bushes, bright colors specked around in the green.

Fukui unhesitantly walked towards the grass, and patted it down till he made a space big enough for the two. He looked up, blue-grey eyes peeking at Minato who was walking around the field. The older boy walked over, and sat down, staring at the child. He was playing with a piece of grass, twirling it absentmindedly, finally he dropped it, the blade of grass drifting down. Bluntly, Fukui said, “Your home life is not good.”

Minato’s smile froze. A small flutter of panic started beating, and there was a lump in his throat. “W-well…” he cleared his throat, the action seemingly too mature for his young age. “Yes,” he finally admitted. His tone turned wistful. “It could be better.”

There was a silence as Minato breathed in the fresh air of the morning, the soft light warming him up from the slight chill of the dew of the grass. He leaned back, his hands supporting himself as he tilted his head back to let the light wash over him. Fluffy looking clouds drifted through the blue sky.

Fukui hummed thoughtfully. “Better,” he echoed. There was a slight, _something_ in his words that Minato just couldn’t figure out. “ _Better_.”

Sharp eyes darted over to him before focusing on the grass. Fukui plucked one, and started tearing it to pieces. Dropping it, he grabbed another one, this time tearing it to even smaller pieces. He repeated his motion. After a few more blades of grass sacrificed their lives, he picked one up and brought it closer to his face, studying it. 

“You are not okay.” Fukui calmly stated, one hand bringing the piece of grass even closer to look at.

Minato blinked and his head straightened up, staring at the other with confusion. “I-I’m okay? What are you talking about?”

The child brought the blade of grass down and started to tear it into pieces, very slowly, with a methodical process. “You have bruises,” he said impassively. 

Minato whitened. He tensed, but stayed still. Out of shock? Surprise? Whichever thing that held him still, made his heart pound, kept his ears keen, and made all the sound around him disappear in a buzz of white noise. The world turned to a black and white static, making him feel like he was walking blindfolded in the dark, told to listen to Fukui and his blunt, whispered words. He wished it didn’t, because he clearly heard Fukui, and it seemed like only Fukui, as he started talking again. “Your parents, they beat you?”

“ _Fukui,_ ” he pleaded. There was a lurching feeling in his stomach, and he vaguely felt like he was going to be sick, hands digging into the dirt, grass being uprooted in his shock. If he didn’t say it, it didn’t happen. It didn’t. They’re his parents. Just a few bruises. “ _Fukui._ ” he said again. “They — not really… Just — just…”

Fukui mercilessly continued on. Although his tone was serious, his eyes were focused on the blade of grass in his small hands, which he was systematically dismantling. “Konoha has laws against child abuse.”

He fell silent. Opening his mouth, he tried, “They’re my par —”

“Konoha has _laws_ against child abuse.”

For a second, Minato childishly hated the other boy. Narrowing his eyes into a glare, his anger bubbled as the boy didn’t even look over, still focused on his blade of grass. What did he know? They were his parents, they do love him. _They do, they do, they do, they do._

His bruises ached. There was a tiredness that stirred awake, the one that made him avoid his parents, that told him to eat quietly — and it told him this time that he was going to be done. Done with all of it. Done with the arguments, and fighting, and violence. Done with coming home to a trashed apartment. Done with receiving noise complaints. Done with painting over the cracks in the walls. His anger fell flat after a few seconds, and he deflated. _They don’t, they don’t, they don’t, they don’t._

“But,” he whispered, staring at the sky that reflected the color of his eye. “They’re my parents.”

There was a pile of shredded grass in front of Fukui as he finally looked up, a brittle look in his eyes. 

Years will have passed, and Minato will remember the look in his eyes, still not being able to completely place it. But in long nights alone, curled in his bed, he will remember the way the light fell to shadow his eyes as the world seemed to stop and hold its breath. How it felt like he was a million miles away from the other, though they were sitting with their knees touching.

How, almost in slow motion, with an emotionless look, Fukui Haruki _almost_ innocently remarked, 

_“So?”_

The wind that ruffled his hair, he would remember, seemed like a sorrowful sigh, whistling against his ears. In that small clearing, where he felt like he was plummeting into the dark, his world was splintered to dust by this strange, green-haired child, who caught him before he hit the floor and built his world back up, piece by piece.

And Minato, using every bit of genius that he was born with, blue eyes as sharp as eagles and intelligence even sharper, said, “You’re the orphan here. So how do I get to live in the orphanage, then?”

Fukui gave him a speculative look, but the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter, and in the future, he’d liked to think that there was a minuscule smile on his face, dazzling in that moment. So when he’s about to fall asleep, Minato thinks about how the light was gently shining down on Haruki and how it just seems to suit him, even in the future. It almost seemed like a trick of the light as Fukui’s eyes seemed to gleam in an otherworldly brilliance, shifting with the colors of the rainbow.

Minato knew it wasn't.

  
  
  



End file.
